Rain
by Persephone Price
Summary: "She reached for him and he reached for her, and they gripped one another in order to stay alive."


**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

They were in the rain.

It was raining, always raining, in their souls. There was a constant blanket of melancholy that suffocated them, a constant damper on their happiness. A constant, black depression that loomed over them.

They were alone, so alone, even though they had each other. They were so alone because although they had each other, they could not _have_ each other. Something crucial was missing in their rapport. They didn't dare name it because it would only lead to an acknowledgment that mustn't ever be acknowledged, but they were both aware of this nameless sentiment's persistent existence.

They had tried to ignore it and tried just as desperately to squelch it, but still it endured, resilient and undeterred.

Their lives had become segmented. There were days when the war within them was crippling, when they could hardly fight the demons' battling wills within them. There were other days, when it was not so difficult. But they lived under the constant threat that the war inside themselves was on the horizon, and that one side would eventually win out. These demons were not the type of demons they were accustomed to – no, they were something entirely different and more formidable, something they were not equipped to vanquish.

Everything about their relationship was a tragic combination of suppressed and embraced emotions. They embraced their connection, their fated alliance. They embraced their platonic fondness for one another and their codependence in this dangerous journey. But they suppressed everything else, the spikes in their heart rates whenever the other grew near, the prolonged eye contact that they didn't dare assign meaning to. And they certainly suppressed the burning within them whenever he held her close or whenever she reached for his hand in the dark. Because it was meant to be just as platonic as every other action, it really was. She reached for him and he reached for her, and they gripped one another in order to stay alive. They were safe when they couldn't see each other, safe when the darkness concealed all the sentiments that swam in their eyes.

They were locked in a dire, perpetual sham, and the only end was the rain in their souls.

But now, it was both physically and metaphorically raining.

They were drenched – absolutely sopping wet – as they limped their way back to her police cruiser. The rain washed away the blood, the mixture of their own and the blood of their foes. Bruised, scratched, but altogether generally unharmed, it was not the physical turmoil that weighed on their souls.

They had seen things. They had seen things that no on else on the entire planet could even begin to comprehend, they had seen things that would drive other people mad. And they had overcome these things together.

"Are you all right?" he asked as they sat, trying to compose themselves.

"Yeah, I think so," she murmured, shivering.

"That was quite a close one," he stated. And it was true, it was so true that it was an understatement. It was a miracle they had made it out.

"Yeah," she repeated. She was shell-shocked, still not entirely convinced that they had survived. When she had adequately gathered herself, she put her hands on the steering wheel, trying to anchor herself to something solid. She was not yet prepared to transport them, not prepared to part ways.

"Why don't you stay the night at my place," she suggested, not uncomfortably. He'd shared her couch on many an occasion, so there was nothing indecorous in her proposal. "I'm too tired to drive you all the way back to the cabin," she added as a transparent excuse.

"Alright," he agreed, not hesitantly. There was the faintest trace of trepidation in his tone, but there always was when it came to matters such as these. He had no reason to feel that tonight could be any different than any other night, when they quelled one another's terror and tried to keep the nightmares at bay. They had both, at times, caught the other crying or thrashing in their sleep. The night brought with it a singular sort of surreal terror and, magically, even the faintest of touches – a hand on the shoulder or fingers brushing a stray tendril of hair out of the way – could banish it; neither quite knew why.

But they never spoke of these things.

And so they arrived at her house, still dripping wet and now freezing cold.

"We should take showers," she informed him tonelessly.

Her skin formed goosebumps against the cool air, and his eyes zeroed in on her exposed flesh. Somehow, he found himself unable to move even a centimeter, his feet rebelling against his control and planting themselves firmly on the floor.

"Yes," he contradicted himself, wetting his chapped lips.

She was close to him, distractingly close. As their eyes remained fixed on each other's, he swore he was hypnotized. Innumerable discouraging thoughts of every nature swarmed his brain, and alarm bells rang out shrilly. But still, he could not move.

"You wanna go first?" she spoke. Something in her eyes told him she was equally enthralled. Her pearly white teeth chattered against the frigidness of the air that encompassed them. The only heat that could be found lay between their bodies.

Out of instinct, he ran his hands along her arms – he hoped the friction might help their predicament, but it only made it decidedly more ominous.

She looked at him – directly in the eyes – and there were several beats of heavy silence. A parallel brew of conflicting emotions whirled within her irises. The tension was so thick in the air he could practically taste it.

And then he didn't know what to do, so he did the only thing that his clouded reason allowed him: he reached for her. He leaned in, second-guessed himself, and veered back all in one fluid motion. His uncertainty was palpable. Abbie didn't do anything but continue to watch him, terrified and transfixed – she wanted him to arrive at this decision all on his own, barring any sort of external involvement. She could practically see the gears turning in his mind.

And then he pounced at her. Grabbing her face, he pulled her closer, so impossibly close that he was able to fuse his lips with hers and feel her fully against him. He sought heat, he sought a response to his desire, and above all he sought an end to this tired ruse that they desolately maintained.

Because they were friends, yes, but they were also something utterly different. And their apprehension was certainly not unwarranted, but a magnetism as potent as theirs could not be evaded forever.

But it was a beautiful, miraculous thing, this kiss, just as miraculous as their unlikely survival.

He was dead, or at least he _should_ be dead. And yet she made him feel so alive, more alive than he'd ever been, even in 1776. Everything was different, now, in this world, everything was foreign, but this long-lost pang of affection and intimacy was comforting and familiar.

He just might love her, he thought, and she just might love him. The way she wove her fingers into his hair, the way she arched her back so that her body was pressed into his, like it was meant to be there – it all indicated that she might.

His tongue tangled with hers, intoxicated, drinking her in, unable to get enough. It would never be enough, not until he had her completely, until he knew every inch of her. They were a flurry of lips and limbs, attacking each other like starving animals.

Her hands roamed over his body, explored what lay beneath his outdated garments. They were uncertain at first, but quickly became emboldened by the soft, involuntary moan that broke through his throat.

The heat generated between them combated the coldness of the rain. And they would be even warmer, if they ridded themselves of their clothing. This wasn't a notion that escaped either of them. Abbie tore at his shirt, wrenching it over his head and pushing his coat off his shoulders all at the same time. And he was a most malleable subject, offering nothing even vaguely akin to resistance. When his skin hit the air, it was quickly warmed by her fluttering fingertips.

Her own chest heaved, and he felt the need to free it gnaw at his very core.

But they were only just through the threshold of her front door.

"Crane," she whispered through ragged breaths.

"Sorry, do you –" he could barely articulate his misgivings before the delight of her mouth on his silenced him.

"Bed," was all she uttered against his lips.

He gulped; he wanted to respond, he wanted to ask for permission – or even to stop their experimentations from progressing further, because it seemed wrong to engage in this sort of activity without any verbal discussion – but he simply _couldn't_; he could only hoist her up and close the minuscule gap between them. She, in turn, wrapped her legs around his torso, so light that he wondered why he hadn't done this earlier.

He had many qualms about where this was going. Qualms that were founded in his upbringing and his past, qualms that were founded in the very fiber of his moral identity. But somehow, she obliterated them. She destroyed them, turned them to dust with her skillful tongue. He wasn't surprised, really, and he didn't think he should be – she was a marvel in this way, just as she was in every other.

If they stopped for even a moment, he thought he might be able to collect himself and gather his senses – perhaps, if they just stopped, he might be able to regain control of the situation and remember his morals. Because acts such as these were forbidden out of wedlock, full stop. And it frightened him to realize how easily he could discard the standards that he had thought to be so securely ingrained in him.

His desire for her was raw, unable to be stifled even by his Puritanical sensibilities. Not as she ground her hips against his, and especially not as she reached her delicate hand into his breeches. He was only able to obey her commands. He would have been more frustrated with his lack of dominion over his own actions, had he not been so overtaken by sensory pleasure and had adrenaline and passion not coursed so thickly through his bloodstream.

And so, they were soon in her bedroom.

He set her down tenderly on her bed, his upper articles of clothing still on the mudroom floor. She reached for him, tugging, pulling, bringing him closer by the waistband of his trousers. Her saturated shirt adhered to her skin in some sort of cosmic warning, but he ignored it. He peeled it from her flesh, dropping it behind him and granting his hands the honor of exploring her glorious figure. The curve of her waist, the curve of her breasts, it was all so perfect. But there was something impeding his journey, something that he had seen before but had never grappled with; she wore a contraption that proved infuriatingly difficult to undo.

"Here," she whispered gently, guiding his hands with her own. "It's hard even for people nowadays, don't worry."

She gave him a flushed, cheeky smile that lead him to believe he ought to be embarrassed, but he was too preoccupied to register what she was saying. His mind was consumed, rendered unusable by his lust. So instead he let her direct him, burying his face in the crook of her neck as his hands followed her wordless instructions. The desperation of his mouth against her skin stunned her into a similar state.

With that cursed piece of clothing off, he was given full access to what he had been so ravenously seeking. God help him, she was beyond his wildest fantasies (which was to say he had fantasized about this vision many a time). He grew shamefully hard at the mere sight of her, her toned body gleaming in the dim light trickling in from the hallway. She was slim, but by no means frail. She was perfect.

Now that they were both topless, they seemed evenly matched. Just as his hands wandered her body, hers wandered his. She traced every divot, every well-defined muscle. Her fingertips hovered just above the puckered white flesh of his scar, and he grabbed her hand and pressed it to the offending mark. He didn't want her to be timid – he wanted her to know every part of him. She could feel his heart thump rapidly against his ribcage, just below the surface, and their eyes locked. The meaning of everything settled in, a profound understanding exchanged between them. This was _real_ and there was no return from it, so they might as well press forward. However much they had already been through together, they were now entering terrifyingly uncharted waters.

He kissed her again, softly, coming to kneel above her on the bed. His lips led an expedition from her sternum to her bellybutton, the harsh chill from earlier now completely dissipated as his mouth left a trail of fire in its wake. She arched her back impatiently, trying to deepen the contact of his teasing gestures.

He chuckled to himself at her eagerness, earning an irritated and breathless "_What?_" from his partner. He was not accustomed to women being so demonstrative in their desires, but he certainly found it wonderfully refreshing.

He tilted his head to peer up at her, his beard tickling her sensitive skin. His chin was propped comically on her abdomen, allowing him to see a distinctly vexed expression wash over her features.

"You are certain this is the course we ought to be taking, Miss Mills?" he inquired, his impish mirth giving way to grave sincerity.

"If you stop now, I'll kill you," she ground out bluntly.

Chuckling again, he kissed her hipbone affectionately and said, "I suppose I mustn't deny my lady's wishes, then," before snapping open the button on her jeans and traveling lower. It had been so, so long since he'd done anything like this, but he was counting on belief that, anatomically and logistically speaking, things hadn't changed much in the past couple of centuries.

His hypothesis was soon proved correct as Abbie's breath hitched in her throat, her brain unable to formulate coherent thoughts. She had dreamed about it – oh had she dreamed – but reality was another game entirely, and it was a game that she was unprepared for. The fact that this was all happening so quickly – spiraling beyond their control so indefinitely – was unsettling. But their brakes had been cut the moment his lips had ghosted over hers, pent up desire bursting through their broken floodgates without any chance of waning.

"C-Crane," she gasped, eyes screwed shut. Her hands ran through his locks again, holding him in place. He smiled devilishly against her, feeling quite proud of himself. "Ichabod," she whimpered entreatingly.

This – the mere mention of his Christian name – dissolved his playfulness and sent him into something he could only describe (in retrospect, of course, for descriptions were beyond him) as a frenzy. He was met with a look of hazy surprise when he jerked up to look her in the eyes, desperately aroused and hopelessly in love. The way she had said it, her tone so breathy and the word so rare on her lips, had an unexpectedly strong effect on him.

He kissed her hard – harder than he meant to, harder than a gentleman should have. She responded in kind, easily matching his fervor. Her trembling hands travelled inelegantly from his taut stomach to the last of his remaining garments, pulling them down swiftly.

"Are you sure, Abbie?" he asked in what came out as a growl. He was typically a man of such eloquence, but this meager plea for permission was all he could muster at the moment, with her hand exactly where he wanted it. What he was doing – and allowing her to do – was, by his antiquated standards, wholly improper and spoke volumes to just how much he had come to adopt modern customs. And while he may have never behaved like this in the 18th century, he certainly would have wanted to. This era, if nothing else, allowed him freedom of expression.

"_Of course_," she barely managed.

Unable to wait any longer, he took her hips and joined their bodies. It was so perfect, so exquisite, that for a moment he swore he was Adam and she was Eve and this was the first time two individuals had ever known one another in this way. It was ridiculous, he knew, because they were performing a dance that had literally been done since the dawn of humanity – but somehow, it seemed novel. He was hesitant to ascribe any sort of metaphysical meaning to what they were doing for fear of making himself into a clichéd, star-crossed lover, but he was inclined to think that their predestined status as Witnesses had something to do with the state of intense and toe-curling bliss they had been plunged into. A feeling of ecstasy washed over them, cleansing them of that looming depression in their souls.

Abbie pushed gently at his chest, resulting in his momentary confusion; however, her intentions soon became clear as she switched their positions, so that she hovered above him. From his back, he considered her. Even in this wanton state, she looked inexplicably flawless and angelic. He found her confidence – and what would have been considered to be brazenness, in his day – absolutely irresistible, and reveled in the idea that _he_ was able to do this to her.

When they reached their ends together, bounding, falling, plummeting over the edge of sanity, Ichabod felt like a new man. There was a curious sort of clarity that overtook him, as if he had been rechristened and finally made to know his true purpose in life. Neither lasted very long, and the tightly wound spring that seemed to lie within each of them was quick to snap.

They caught their breath together; Abbie had an arm draped over his torso and he held her close to his side. When they finally looked at each other, he said solemnly, "What just transpired cannot be undone."

"I would never want it to be," she said earnestly.

Crane looked at her in sheer adoration, a look that she had never seen from anyone before. "Good," he stated, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

And even from inside, they could tell that the rain finally stopped.

* * *

**Author's Note: I was suuuuuper hesitant to post this, so any feedback would be very much appreciated.**


End file.
